Chapter 17

MY GRANDPARENTS INSISTED ON HAVING BRUNCH that Sunday at the club. I really didn’t want to see anyone again after Cole’s party, so I tried to get out of it, claiming I had a migraine, but my grandmother just shot me a look until I said okay, I’d get ready.

“Wear something with a V-neck, it’s more flattering,” she called.

This time, as my grandfather pulled through the gates, I had a nervous pit in my stomach. I was dreading seeing anyone, especially here, in front of my grandparents. It felt like there had been this enormous shift, and suddenly the cracks I’d suspected were there all along had become visible.

Fault lines, they were called. Places where it was only a matter of time until an earthquake occurred. It didn’t matter how quiet or safe things seemed—the cracks were still there, hidden beneath the perfect surface, waiting.

I felt faintly ill at the thought of running into Cole, and it was only when we were already inside that I remembered his parents were out of town.

The brunch buffet was in the same place as before. In the bright October sunshine, the room was transformed. It was loud, bustling, cheerful. Kids ran around in church clothes, and men in dry-fit golf polos waited in line at the omelet station.

I loaded up my plate with bacon and hash browns and sliced fruit, and some bougie-looking pastries called kouign-amann.

“All those carbs, Sasha?” my grandmother said, making a face.

I’d been so distracted I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d just grabbed whatever had looked good, since I figured we might as well get our money’s worth.

“Oh. Um,” I stared down at my food, embarrassed. It was mostly grease and sugar, but then, I’d had enough alcohol the night before that the thought of eggs or yogurt made me queasy.

My grandfather, whom I hoped would come to my rescue, continued scrolling through his phone, squinting at the screen even with the enlarged type. He was on Facebook, reading the comments on someone’s post.

“Unbelievable,” he mumbled. “There’s so much fake news.”

“A lot of women in our family have thick thighs,” Eleanor went on. “It’s just a fact. We’ll never be thin. But we can always be better.”

She kept going, explaining her gym routine, which sounded exhausting, and like you’d always be stressed about running out of clean underwear, doing Zumba and yoga that many times a week.

I picked at my fruit, wishing she’d give up. So I was having an unhealthy breakfast. It wasn’t a crime.

“Really, Eleanor, leave the poor girl alone,” my grandfather said.

“I’m just giving her advice,” my grandmother huffed. “Everyone could stand to lose five pounds. It makes a big difference in the face.”

“Well, I think you look beautiful, sweet pea,” my grandfather told me, winking. “I’m going to get some of those pastries. They look scrumptious.”

But before he could get up, a tall, elegant man approached our table carrying an egg-white omelet.

“Good morning, Blooms,” he said, beaming. He had a perfect slick of black hair that was going gray at the temples, and his sleeves were rolled just so.

“Michael, hello,” said my grandfather.

“Hey there, Joel. Sorry to interrupt. Just a quick work-related question; I won’t take up too much of your time,” Michael promised.

And then—oh god.

Hovering just behind him was Friya. She carried an identical breakfast and had an upbeat smile pasted on. She and I regarded each other for a moment, and then Persian George Clooney turned his attention toward my grandfather, the two of them discussing some problem with a new secretary.

“So did you have fun last night?” Friya asked me.

Wow. Of course I didn’t have fun last night. Which I thought Friya definitely knew.

“Yeah, Lily and I did,” I said.

“Wait, was she even there?” Friya laughed. “I guess I was super distracted.” Her eyes lit up as she leaned in, suddenly excited. “Did I tell you Nick and I got back together?”

“Congratulations,” I said hollowly.

“I know, right?” Friya bubbled. “This whole hating him thing was getting exhausting.”

“I’ll bet,” I said, since my grandmother was listening, and it wasn’t like I could say anything. She really wasn’t bringing it up. The thing with Cole. It was like my crisis had been such a small blip on her evening that it hadn’t even registered. “Thanks for the advice about Harry Potter,” I added.

Friya frowned, like she had no idea what I was talking about.

And then my grandmother cut in with, “I’m so glad you girls are friends.”

“Sasha’s the best,” Friya said, smiling. “And it’s, like, so cute with her and Cole.”

I almost choked on a piece of cantaloupe. Why on earth would she say that? It was such bullshit. She was such bullshit.

My grandmother beamed, like Friya was the answer to all of the questions I’d been evading.

“Now tell me,” my grandmother began, asking about Friya’s extracurriculars. I picked up a kouign-amann, taking an enormous bite as Friya and my grandmother chatted about some dog charity. It was hard to believe this was the same girl who had given zero shits about my crisis, and then had babbled about herself, because when it came to Friya, she was her own favorite subject.

There was no way I could sit down at their lunch table on Monday and pretend nothing was the matter. No way I could act like it was completely fine that Cole had taken topless photos of me, and the girls had laughed and made fun of some girl’s pubes when I asked for their help.

I was done.

“Daddddy,” Friya whined. “I’m going to be late for my massage.”

He glanced at his watch, one of those flashy silver things, and agreed that they really did have to get going, but it was a pleasure running into us.

After that, brunch dragged on forever. My grandparents seemed to know an overwhelming number of people. By the third old lady Eleanor just had to say hello to, I kind of zoned out.

As I stood there, miserable, waiting for it to be time to go home, I had a terrifying realization: This was what my grandparents wanted for me. This life. This world. These people.

And if I wasn’t careful, one day I might look around and discover that I was a lawyer at my grandfather’s firm, that I was at this brunch of my own volition, eating an egg-white omelet, married to some boy from a good family because everyone thought it was a good idea, not because we actually loved each other.

I’d said yes too often, agreeing with everything my grandparents wanted because I didn’t want to rock the boat. Except I’d never stopped to really think where that boat was headed. And now I knew: it wasn’t to a lighthouse, but to a yacht club.

I’d screwed up, letting them think I wanted this. Letting them think they could steer me in whatever direction they wanted. Because we’d gone too far, and there was no coastline in sight, and I didn’t know how to tell them that I wanted to turn back.

On the drive home, my phone buzzed with a text from Cole:

hey you around

Oh, god. What if Lily hadn’t erased all of the pictures? Was that why Friya had been so fake nice to me—because she knew?

In a bit, I wrote back.

ok can I call you in like 10 min? Cole texted.

Um I guess. What’s up? I asked. Calling me didn’t sound good. At all.

need to talk

I stared down at my phone screen, feeling ill.

“Sasha, what’s going on?” my grandmother asked. “You’re buried in your phone.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was replying to a text.”

“From whom?”

“Um, Cole?” I said.

“Oh.” My grandmother sounded pleased. “That’s all right then. It was very nice of him to take you to the football game.”

I mumbled that I guessed so, not really wanting to get into it.

“And did you have fun at his party?” my grandfather asked.

“Yep,” I said tightly.

“It’s such a relief, you dating such a nice boy,” my grandmother said.

The sentence hung there awkwardly as my grandfather pulled into the driveway.

I needed to correct them. I had to correct them.

“Actually, we’re not—” I began.

“We should have him over for dinner,” my grandfather said, cutting me off.

“That would be wonderful,” my grandmother said. “I can make my chicken pesto. Or maybe the porcini risotto. Sasha, find out if there’s anything he doesn’t eat.”

“I don’t know if he—” I began, trying to think up an excuse. But my mind was blank. All I could think was, He needs to talk. On the phone. “Eats mushrooms,” I finished lamely.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re texting him right now,” my grandmother said.

Ugh.

“Okay, I’ll ask,” I promised, desperate to escape the conversation.

And then I went up to my room and scrolled through Instagram as I waited, mindlessly liking photos without really looking at them. My stomach was churning. I hated not knowing what Cole wanted to talk about. Hated feeling tethered to my phone, waiting for it to ring.

When he finally called, he sounded sheepish, and embarrassed, and hungover, his voice crawling over gravel as he asked point-blank if I was going to tell anyone about what he’d done.

“You mean the topless pictures you took without my permission and refused to delete?” I said, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

“I messed up,” Cole admitted. “But I really wasn’t going to show them to anyone. I just, you know, thought it would be hot. To have some.”

“Well, you could have asked,” I said.

“I could?” he asked hopefully.

“I would have said no.”

“Bummer.” I could hear the smile in his voice. The way he didn’t quite understand that all wasn’t forgiven. “Not even if I sent you some first?”

“Cole,” I scolded. “I need you to take this seriously.”

“I am,” he insisted. “That’s why I called. Because I seriously need a favor.”

“Which is?”

“Can you maybe not tell your grandparents about this?” Cole asked. “Because I’d hate if it got back to my gran. She’s pretty Catholic.”

So that’s what this was about. Damage control. I was unspeakably disappointed all of a sudden. I’d expected—I don’t know. A real apology. A sense of awareness. Except of course not. Cole expected to get away with things—ordering drinks underage, having food delivered to campus, and now how he’d behaved toward me.

It wasn’t like I was so desperate to tell my grandparents that I’d taken my clothes off in a boy’s room. I could just picture Eleanor’s panic, her horror that I was my mom all over again when it came to boys and bad decisions. Her fear that she’d become a great-grandmother at sixty-five. Still. It would have been nice if Cole let me make that decision for myself.

“Um,” I said. “I guess I don’t have to say anything.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Okay, great. Glad that’s settled.”

There was this long pause, and I wondered why we were still on the phone, and then he asked, “Hey, since you’re here, you have Tanaka for AP Euro, right?”

“Right,” I said warily.

“Do you think he’s going to ask us about trade routes on the test?”

I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Waited until I was reasonably certain I wasn’t going to sound pissed before I answered, “Um, well, he was really cagey when this girl in my class asked, so we should probably go over them.”

“Hundred percent,” Cole said.

And then, before I could fully process the fact that we were talking about the AP Euro test, he hung up.